


Butterflies in the throat

by angel_scum



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Americana Isolation Gothic, Angst, Bucky Barnes Has Panic Attacks, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Control Issues, Creepy Alexander Pierce, Creepy Brock Rumlow, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, HYDRA Trash Party, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Manipulation, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Steve Rogers, Physical Abuse, Power Imbalance, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sexual Abuse, Steve Knits, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers is Not Hydra, Steve has debt, Steve has spidey senses but without being cool or spiderman, Stun Batons, Touch-Starved, Verbal Abuse, Whump, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, diner, im a terrible person, janitor Steve, noncon NOT stucky, the winter soldier just wants to be loved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2019-10-20 19:19:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17628134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_scum/pseuds/angel_scum
Summary: Even Hydra needs janitors.Steve just wanted to be as far away from New York as possible to lick his wounds. Turns out Alaska has much worse in store for him - and much better.





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This is shameless hydra trash acting like a real fic... for the love of god read the tags first!

It wasn’t a bad job. At least not the worst that Steve had worked - but then again nothing really compares to the job he’d once had cleaning up college dorms. (That. _That_ took the cake over secret government facilities any day.)

But Steve wasn’t in Alaska working at a secret government facility just because it was better than a college dorm. (Which, admittedly, wasn’t hard to surpass.) Rather, Steve was convenient.

No family.

No friends.

Dedication to his country.

Biohazard training.

_Debt._

Because, yeah. Steve had been training to be a nurse right up until his ma had gotten sick, real sick. Then he’d dropped everything without a finished degree and gone home.

He was there for his ma. He was able to brush her hair and fold her clothes and change her bedding. Later, he was able to drive her to her appointments and rub her back as she vomited into the toilet. Later, he was able to shave his head so they matched, even if it only earned a weak snort and a fond scratch to his scalp.

Steve learned real quick that sometimes being there for someone didn’t mean everything it should’ve. Sometimes instead it meant debt, and pain. Because death doesn’t care that you’ve _been there_ for someone.

It probably should’ve been suspicious when Steve had gotten the offer to go work for the United States Government at an outpost in Alaska not six months after his ma passed. But he’d still been grieving, trying to pay off his college debt and her medical bills, and finding his inherited home to not be nearly as warm as it had once been. Leaving the city? His few friends? For a small cabin in the woods of Alaska? 

It only took Steve a week to decide. He had been packed up within the month.

It was the worst decision of his life.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t odd for Steve to see things in the facility that were, well, _odd_. But usually they were small things. Weapons. Medical devices. Animal testing. They didn’t always sit well with Steve (especially when he had to dispose of mouse corpses or clean bloody floors) but it was sanctioned by the US Army. It wasn’t _illegal_.

Right?

Steve did his best to keep his head down and focus on a job well done. He prided himself in his work ethic, and the fact that he was the only janitor employed in the large underground complex. There had been a couple others, but they quickly quit after Steve had been hired. Evidently the head of the place, Pierce, didn’t feel the need to hire any others. Steve was doing a good job keeping up with the trash and dust. But that was pretty easy - after all, only certain areas were sanctioned for Steve’s use, and though the complex was large and sprawling, it contained mostly storage. Every week Steve would get a list printed out of lovations that had been used in the previous week, and every week Steve would go through the rooms systematically sweeping, mopping, dusting and disposing of trash, recyclables and biohazards. It was mindless work, but time consuming. He needed something time consuming. 

After all, it was better than wallowing in his misery. 

It wasn’t long into working at the complex that Steve saw Him for the first time.

Guards were normal. So were armed guards, even soldiers and generals. Part of the purpose of the complex was to develop weaponry for the US Army after all. But this man -

This man didn’t look military.

His hair was far longer than code. His body was covered in black material, too tight to not be custom. Too many buckles to be up to any uniform standards. The man stared straight ahead, flanked by some of the usual guards and soldiers that Steve recognized.

The thing that really stuck out, though, was the man’s left arm. It glinted in the buzzing CFL glow. Steve would’ve guessed it were fake, or maybe a weapon mistaken for an arm, if it weren’t for the way it _moved_. Because yeah, the man’s metal arm was attached. Or maybe a sleeve, but from the slight clicking sound as the panels minutely rearranged it sounded more hollow than not. It acted completely natural, metal muscle and skin compressing and expanding in time with the rest of the man’s movements.

Steve was careful to not gawk openly, instead watching arm guy’s reflection in the metal trash bin he had been emptying. And okay, yeah, that was weird, but he didn’t have much interesting happening in his life outside of the crippling debt and choice between lavender scented Fabuloso or passion fruit. 

Then for a brief moment, the man and Steve made eye contact in the warped metal. Steve jumped, quickly going back to his duties, acting like he wasn’t intently listening to their footsteps fade down the hallway. The man hadn’t said anything. His expression hadn’t even changed.

The whole interaction sat uneasy in Steve’s stomach.

 

* * *

 

 

That night when Steve was eating dinner, he didn’t watch the news. All the channels were covering the same story of how a world renowned journalist was gunned down in Ontario in broad daylight by an unseen assailant.

A better man would have kept watching the television.

But Steve wasn’t a better man, and such unnecessary death bothered him.

He’d had enough death in his life recently.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve had his days down pat by the end of the third month working for the facility.

Wake up, coffee and a granola bar while running out the door. Start on the ground floor, then work down.

In his spare time he knitted. It was something to do in abscence of pen and paper, and it was more beneficial than doodling could ever be. (His ma had loved his doodling. It didn’t seem right to draw after she was gone.) 

Steve had a small closet to himself in the facility. It was in a hallway on the third floor, stuffed to the brim with cleaning supplies and maintenance junk. It also had a small refrigerator, table and chair. It was nice, right up until it wasn’t, when his skin started itching with a need to be useful and a pang of sadness. 

Steve got those feelings a lot. His lunch breaks usually weren’t the full 30 minutes because of it.

Steve sighed, because it seemed like today would be one of those days where he wouldn’t be able to sit for more than ten minutes. Resolutely, Steve shoved the rest of his sandwich into his mouth. It only took a moment for him to toss his mop and bucket onto the cleaning cart. 

It was mopping day. Before lunch Steve had already made it through to the third floor, so now there was only four through seven left. Manageable, if boring. 

Steve would never get used to how resolutely invisible he became when he cleaned. The staff of the facility just... walked by him. Talked around him. Which could be peaceful, but also could be absolutely irritating. 

Today, it was downright obnoxious. 

Steve had finished the third hallway of the fifth floor when he heard them. People talking. the voices were loud, jeering even, and despite his best resolution, Steve was bored and annoyed at being a ghost and decided it wouldn’t hurt to work in the direction of said jeering, would it? 

Down the hall, Steve could see a door left ajar. Light spilled out of it, and interestingly enough Steve realized it was a room he hadn’t worked in before. 

He drew closer, mopping absentmindedly.

It was when Steve was ten feet away that he realized the jeering was accompanied by the sound of something hitting flesh.

Steve stopped mopping, a cold feeling trickling down his spine. It was probably nothing, really, and Steve was just a janitor, what was  he going to do if it _was_ something anyway? (Which, okay, Steve knew being a small janitor wouldn’t actually stop him from a fight.)

And then Steve was at the door, his thoughts interrupted by the fact that he’d apparently walked in on some guy getting the absolute shit kicked outta him.

”Dammit,” Steve muttered under his breath. Because he was no good at just turning around and acting like nothing was the matter.  

He hefted his mop like a weapon and pushed the door open fully.

“Hey!” Steve shouted as he ran to put himself between the soldiers and the man on the ground. He was curled in on himself, blood a jarring smear under his nose. Faintly Steve realized it was the metal arm guy. 

The soldiers stepped back, obviously shocked enough to let Steve plant his feet between arm guy and them.

(Arm guy was eerily silent, tracking Steve’s movements with clear eyes. Steve didn’t let it bother him though, people always reacted to getting their ass handed to them in different ways, after all.)

  
“The hell do you think you’re doing?!” Steve said, brandishing the mop in front of him, putting on an angry face.

  
The soldiers - and damn there were three of them - look at each other. Then started laughing. 

Steve colored, his eyes narrowing. “You think it’s funny? Stomping on this guy?” He jerked his head to indicate the man currently balled up behind him.

The soldier in the middle - all dark hair and cold eyes - took a step forward.

“C'mon kid, put that down. Someone could get hurt.”

Steve clenched his teeth. “Yeah? And who are you to call me a kid, asshole?”

The soldiers stopped laughing. If Steve had a shred of common sense he probably would’ve dropped the mop and taken this to a superior officer. But he didn’t, and so when the guy in front of him went cold and calculating, Steve merely raised an eyebrow.

“What, don’t like shitty names, _asshole_?”

Dark eyes narrowed.

“What’s your name, _kid_?”

It wasn’t a question.

“Steve. Steve Rogers.”

The man pursed his lips, taking a moment to leeringly size Steve up and down.

“Okay, _Steven_ , you’re the new janitor. It seems like you don’t know how things go around here yet so let me spell it out,” he took another step forward, body faux casual even as his hand lingered at his side. His baton.

“I’m Rumlow. That piece of shit is _my_ responsibility,” he gestured towards the man still curled behind Steve. “And you’re going to be leaving now.”

“Y’know, I don’t think I will be,” Steve said, teeth gritted.

Rumlow sighed. “You were warned.”

He took a step forward, reaching towards his baton.

Steve tracked the motion, realizing he was about to be _fucked_ and swung out with his mop. It connected with a satisfying thwack.

And then Steve was pinned to the ground with arn guy on top of him, cutting off his airway.

_What the -_

“Asset. Off.” 

Steve’s air supply was restored. He gasped, heaving with the effort. A moment later he was being hauled up to face a very pissy Rumlow.

He had a mark already forming on his cheek.

 _Good_.

“Hold him.”  
_Okay, not as good_ , Steve thought as he felt hands wrapping around his biceps, dragging them to a painful angle behind his back.

It was about that point that Steve wondered if his ma was right when she said if she knew any better, she’d’ve thought Steve liked being punched.

Because yeah.

He got punched.

A lot.

 

* * *

 

 

“And what, exactly, is happening here?”

If it weren’t for the fact that Steve had gotten very good at taking a hit, he probably would’ve been unconscious by the time Director Pierce walked in.

But, since Steve _did_ have a habit of getting punch in the head, he was conscious enough to look up, smile a bloody smile at Rumlow’s quickly whitening face, and hack up a very unpleasant glob of spit and blood to spit on Rumlow’s boot.

Rumlow narrowed his eyes but didn’t do anything to Steve.

Yet.

“I - thought you weren’t flying in until tomorrow, sir.” The two guards behind Rumlow had somehow managed to avoid  
Pierce’s chilly gaze.

“This is what you do when I’m not around?” Pierce walked up to Steve, eyes sliding uncomfortably up and down his kneeling form.

“ _Ravage_ our only cleaning staff?”

“He started it,” Rumlow said, wincing even as the words came out of his own mouth.

God, what a _brat_. Steve would’ve rolled his eyes if it weren’t for the fact that he could barely feel his face.

Pierce arched an eyebrow.

“Explain.”

“Rollins, Westfahl and I were training the asset. This guy came in and interrupted, swinging his mop around and not listening to reason.”

Steve’s jaw dropped. “Excuse you!” He sneered, not caring that the act was making his whole face feel all kinds of crappy. “You and your _goons_ were beating up tin man back there and I got in between ya!”

Something washed over Pierce’s face, a bit of a resigned look.

“So this has been a misunderstanding.” It wasn’t a question. Then, addressing the man holding Steve still, he said:  
“Let him go.”

Steve pitched forward, barely saving himself for another knock on the head.

“What you walked in on Mr…”

“Rogers.” Steve choked out, wiping the blood from his face.

“Rogers,” Pierce continued. “Was this soldier’s conditioning training.” He gestured to the man now in the periphery of Steve.

Steve didn’t buy it. Pierce seemed to understand, as he nodded to the aforementioned soldier.

“Asset. You were training with Rumlow and his men?”

“Yes.”

But it… didn’t feel right. Steve looked warily to the unnamed soldier. “But you’re hurt.”

The soldier did not acknowledge Steve. Pierce ignored the statement.

“You’re here because you want to be, right?” Pierce said. Steve nodded, even though he was… definitely having second guesses.

Seemingly reading his mind, Pierce shot Steve a stern look.

“You want to see the next sunrise then you’ll do your job and forget this ever happened.”

Steve nodded again, because regardless of what Sarah Rogers would say, Steve did know when he was outmatched. The soldiers _and_ Director Pierce were indicator enough.

He didn’t like it, but suddenly Steve was feeling very much like he didn’t want to work this this facility anymore.

But then. Steve didn’t think he really had an _option_. Pierce was threatening his _life_ because he’d walked in on some soldiers smacking each other around? What the hell was really going on here?

Pushing the thoughts of the previous janitorial staff from his mind, Steve swallowed back any protests or arguments that were foolish enough to get caught in the back of his throat. Director Pierce seemed to see something that satisfied him, for he merely nodded his head.

“Good. Now get out.”

Steve didn’t need to be told twice.

 

* * *

 

  
The next day Steve hurt all over. He came to work though because Pierce was terrifying enough to leave an impression. Something in that whole interaction had left a scummy feeling on Steve’s skin. It hadn’t felt right, and capitulating so easily felt even worse. 

But more than that, Steve was curious. After all, nothing interesting happened in his life anymore. 

It was about time he changed that. 


	2. Memo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming in strong with that non con warning.. please read the tags before diving in?

The asset knew it was awake for longer than it normally would’ve been. It didn’t know how it knew that, but it didn’t need to. The ‘ _how_ ’ was inconsequential data. The ‘ _why_ ’ was important, though only if a commander or handler said as much. 

Neither men holding those roles had said as much, so the asset did not know. It was a weapon after all, and weapons did not ask.

The asset’s current facility was cold. It didn’t remember the last time it woke save for a constant, sticky sweat. (Its hair had clung to its forehead, the back of its neck, the slits in its mask. It had been in a location with sand and desert and the constant hum of artillery.)

  
The asset does not have preferences. If it did, though, it would prefer the heat to this current facility.

  
This information was, of course, inconsequential data.

  
The asset’s head was whipped to the side. Its cheek and lip stung. Copper. Injury status: functional.

Handler.

“Fucking listen for once, you dumb sack a’shit!”

The asset listened. The asset looked to the middle ground of the handler’s position. The asset was not allowed to make continued eye contact. Continued eye contact was a threat.  
Threats were corrected.  
)The asset did not have opinions, but if it did it would not like corrections.)

Another slap. “What do you say? Huh?”

The asset let its head stay tilted to the left, lip freely bleeding now. “Ready to comply.”

Handler was silent for a moment. Then:

“Look at me.”

The asset moved its head back gingerly, chin tilted down even as it peered up to its superior.

Handler seemed satisfied with the asset’s submission.

“Better,” handler said, his brow furrowing a bit. “But not perfect.”  
The asset went deathly still, not daring to look away from its handler but also incapable of looking higher than his chin. Handler didn’t seem to mind, instead reaching out and putting pressure on the newly split lip.  
Blood smeared behind calloused fingers as they dragged over the asset’s lips, all the way to its cheekbone.

Weapons did not feel dread. If they did, though, the asset would suspect that this is what true dread felt like.

“Hm. Rollins is taking his sweet time getting the equipment set up for the exercise.”

There was a glint in handler’s eye at this. The asset didn’t respond because it didn’t need to. Instead, it chanced a glance at handler.  
Handler’s pupils were wide. He smirked a little when he met the asset’s eyes, pulling the bloody fingers back to his mouth to lick.

“Fucking love it when you get all twitchy like that,” he said, crowding into the space over the asset. “You only get this way after being off the ice a while.”

Handler leaned in, shoving his finger between the asset’s lips, hooking a finger inside its cheek and pulling its head to the side. The asset let handler pull and prod, resolutely staring into nothing in particular even as handler began to shove his fingers deeper down the asset’s throat, making it gag reflexively.

Handler ignored this in favor of rubbing the front of his pants and leering down at the asset.

“Seems like you remember something after all, huh? You still know what to do?”

The asset did know what to do. It knew what it would need to do. It knew what was happening. It knew it didn’t have preferences but if it _did_ it would prefer to never be touched by handler again, but it couldn’t and it had to be good so it would be good, it would be _good_ , it would -

 _SLAP_.

This time the asset wasn’t prepared, not balanced correctly on its numbing knees, and it went careening to the side with the hit. It hadn’t even noticed handler pulling his finger out of its mouth.

_Insufficient concentration._

It stayed down. It was malfunctioning again. It needed corrected, it needed to tell handler it needed to -

Fingers in hair, pulling tugging dragging ripping -

The asset couldn’t close its eyes because that was bad and the asset wanted to be good.

“Fucking dumb animal,” the sound of a zipper echoed in the room.

“You’re malfunctioning over a little _head_? God. Don’t be such a baby.”

The -

It was musty and large and handler put a hand (the bloody one the _bloody_ one) on the asset’s neck as a warning because the asset needed help not malfunctioning. The asset was so grateful even as its head spun and the room churned with - malfunction.

“Ugh, god,” handler pushed and pushed and _pushed_ and held and held and _held_ and with the hand at its throat, the asset wasn’t fighting it. Swallow, swallow, swallow -

Another pair of footsteps approaching. The asset tried to pull back but handler rammed the heel of his left hand onto the back of the asset’s head, forcing the tip of his cock past the ring of its throat.

The asset gagged, bile rising to the back of its mouth.

“Jesus, Rumlow. You really couldn’t wait to fuck it until after training?”

Handler snorted, not letting up his pace.

“It’s not like it has anything better to do. Besides, you were taking your sweet time.”

Rollins snorted. “Whatever. Just don’t make a mess like last time.”

The asset felt bleery. Handler was keeping a regular pace, his hand still on the asset’s throat. It was grounding in the same way a gun to the temple was grounding. Except handler was _good_ , and handler just wanted the asset to be good.

The asset swallowed around the cock in its throat, relaxing its jaw as it recovered from its malfunction.

Soon enough, black spots speckled its vision. That was alright though, because handler was grunting and moving faster and ripping at the asset’s scalp. It would be over soon.

Dimly, the asset was aware of the threat of choking and swallowed, scarcely tasting the salty semen.

 

The asset didn’t cough after handler pulled away, zipping up. It forced air through its burning lungs at a steady, practiced pace. It would be good. It did not feel pain. It _didn’t_.

Watery eyes glanced up again, daring to take in the way Rollins and handler were talking now. They were talking about exercises. They were ignoring it. The asset needed regular training maintenance in order to function properly. It required regular technological updates to its memory reserves, as during freezing the asset missed major manufacturing breakthroughs.

Thankfully, the asset could always shoot, regardless the changes to any gun. The asset never needed more than a moment with a model to be able to figure it out.

The problem _now_ though was current technology.

The asset did not remember if it was awake for internet and cellular devices. Due to a lack of muscle memory regarding it, though, the asset assumed it was not.

“Soldier.”

The asset made eye contact with handler just long enough to confirm its attention.

“C’mon. Tech room. If we’re late it’s gonna be my problem, but if it’s my problem then I’m gonna make it _your_ problem.”

“Confirmed.” The asset said, a cold trickle of emotion following the curve of its spine.

Rollins snorted, turning to lead the group to tech even as Rumlow shot his back an ugly scowl.The asset did not comment, instead getting to its feet and wiping a quick hand across its mouth when handler wasn’t looking. It did not like handler’s taste, no matter how many times it was told to do so. (It was a weapon, not meant to choose its own likes.)

The asset knew this rebellion, if found out, would end it pain. But for some reason (inconsequential, insufficient data to analyse) the asset was willing to take such a risk.

 

* * *

 

 

  
“You look like shit.”

Steve jumped, his knee smacking the bottom of the bar in his startle.

“Hhhnn- Nat! You nearly gave me a heart attack,” Steve grumbled, hunching his shoulders as he reached to sooth his smarting knee. Natasha didn’t offer an apology for the startle, and Steve did not expect one. After all, this wasn’t the first time Natasha had snuck up on Steve. She was just eerily good like that.

“So you going to tell me where that came from?” She didn’t look up from where she was pouring a cup of coffee in front of Steve.

“Oh, y’know…” Steve mumbled, running a hand self consciously over his bruised face. “Just another knucklehead.”

Nat arched an eyebrow, glancing up as she pushed the fresh cup of coffee toward Steve. “Uh huh.”

Steve pursed his lips, ignoring the way it made his face hurt in favor of cupping his hands around the warm mug.

He resolutely didn’t respond to Natasha’s firm, unconvinced gaze.

She broke first. “Well. I know you can take care of yourself but really… I can knock some heads if you just point me at them.”

Steve snorted into his cup. “Knuckleheads,” he corrected.  
Nat gave a half smile. “Yeah, I’ll knock some knuckleheads.”

Steve smiled a bit as he took another sip of his coffee, still holding it with both hands to warm his fingers.

Nat had been working at A’s Diner as long as Steve had known it existed. Which, granted, wasn’t too long. But they’d become quick friends, with Steve finding the food there to be just the right side of nostalgic, and Natasha finding Steve to be just on the wrong side of trouble one time too many in the alley beside the place.

Because yeah. Apparently standing up to bullies would never get out of his system. (And wouldn’t Sarah Rogers just be turning in her grave at Steve admitting to that?)

Steve held in a sigh at that thought, the familiar path of grief clenching his throat.

Nat seemed to notice Steve’s mood, if the way she paused before shaking her head and moving down the bar to greet a pair of customers just bundling in. They looked military-type, right out of the tunnels of Steve’s own workplace. It made him wince just thinking about soldiers at the moment.

Nevertheless, Steve was happy to be left alone after that. Nat was good at prying the truth out of him but…

But Steve had a feeling that if he shared this story with Nat, it wouldn’t end well for either of them.

So instead Steve pulled out his knitting (a bright red yarn that he had bummed from the clearance bin at Joann’s) and let the comforts of the homey diner ease his aches.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve started seeing more of the metal-armed man after that. A lot more. Steve vaguely wondered where he’d been before, because it was as though the facility were his home now.

Maybe it was.

After all, there was a dormitory portion to the underground labyrinth and Steve couldn’t know for sure if the man lived there, since residents cleaned up their own spaces.

Steve started seeing Rumlow more, too, and quickly decided he hated the creep. Which, okay, Steve had already known he hated Rumlow but now he was _also_ creepy. There was just something off about him. He’d leer at Steve and take time out of his day to move into Steve’s path, deliberately standing close to the janitor. But more than that, the way Rumlow more often that not manhandle arm guy… well.

Something felt wrong seeing it, the blank look and the smug grin as arm guy was pushed, prodded and led through the hallways. It didn’t sit right with Steve the same way looking the other way when a bully got to work didn’t sit right. But he still had bruises and an achy back and the threat of Pierce at the back of his mind. It felt wrong but Steve wasn’t in a position to help. Not in a way that wouldn’t end in a worse situation than before. Because yeah, Sarah Rogers could moan all she wanted about Steve being a bull headed hero-complexed shrimp, but Steve was first and foremost a _strategist_.

So he watched. He waited. He kept silent.

After all, there seemed to be more to this than abuse of power on a commander’s level.

To Steve, it felt like it was something much, much larger happening.

 

* * *

 

 

  
A month after The Incident, Steve went into his office for lunch.

He stopped dead for a moment at the envelope on his desk, cart halfway pulled into the room. The envelope had not been on his desk when he’d left, and it was a chilly reminder that even though Steve liked to think of the room as _his_ and _safe_ , anyone with a key could come in.

Come in and leave something.

Hesitantly, Steve pulled the cart all the way through the door, slipping to the side as he swung it carefully shut. Approaching the desk, he noted that the envelope had his name on it.

For a tantalizing moment, Steve considered just ignoring it, since it wasn’t his… but it _literally had his name on it._

Steve heaved a heavy sigh (after all envelopes were only used for important documents or messages and Steve… well Steve was a _janitor_ ). He just hoped it wasn’t a pink slip. Sure, he’d been slow for his first week healing after The Incident but really they couldn’t blame him for that right? You just don’t come back the next day like nothing happened after a beating (except the metal armed man had).

Hooking his thumb under the upper lip of the envelope, Steve ripped it open before he could talk himself out of it.

Inside was a nice piece of paper, neatly folded.

Inside the paper was a neatly handwritten - memo?

**Meeting with Director Pierce, Tuesday the 3rd, 2pm.**

Steve swallowed, not really understanding for a moment. He hadn’t… done anything recently that warranted a talk with the big guy. Had he? 

Steve flipped the paper over, revealing the blank backside, before going back to the forgotten envelope. Nothing else was inside, no clues to why or what or any of the other questions Steve had knocking around in his head.

Absentmindedly running his fingers through his hair, Steve gave up his search. No use getting worked up about the meeting. Not when it could still mean nothing.

Steve ground his teeth, forcing himself to sit at his desk and eat lunch instead of storming down to Pierce’s office demanding an explanation or some other equally stupid idea. There was something up, that he was sure of.

But right now, he’d need to wait for answers.


	3. Watching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh, thanks for bearing with me... I’ve definitely been typing this whole thing on my phone since my computer is broke so yeah lol.

Steve only hesitated outside Pierce’s office for a moment. Steadied himself. The bruises from his fight with Rumlow and his goons were long gone, but they had left a sinking suspicion in Steve’s gut. He knocked, and was called inside.

  
“Please,” Pierce gestured to the obnoxiously contemporary disaster of design in front of his desk. Steve walked up, suddenly feeling very much like he’d rather be anywhere else.

  
Pierce looked at him, an ugly glint of hunger in his eye, like he knew what Steve was thinking.

Steve sat.

Pierce watched him a moment longer. Asserting control in a way that only a man deeply insecure would feel the need to. Steve reminded himself that, his fingers curling as the silence stretched. 

Pierce sat a moment more.

Then:

“You’re getting a promotion.”

Steve’s froze, his body stiffening up at the words. For all he had expected this meeting to bring...

“Promotion…?” 

Pierce nodded, looking for all the world the cat that got the cream. “Of course. That means a raise, obviously, as well as in-house quarters, among other things.”

Pierce’s face was calm but his eyes were tight - tracking.

 _Oh_.

Oh so that’s the game they were playing. Only - Steve didn’t know all the rules.

“Pardon, sir?” It was safe in the way weighing a knife in the hand was safe.

“Well, we can't keep forcing you to commute, can we? It’s much easier and more comfortable for you to stay here, rather than that ah - what was the word? Shack? You’ve been staying at.”

Steve’s blood boiled for only a moment - too quick lit and dampened to be expressed. Goading. Pierce was _testing_ him, his temper. A lowly fucking janitor. Testing to see if Steve would snap, refuse, step the wrong way -  
To what end? So he could fire him? But no. People like Pierce didn’t  _fire_. Not with people like Rumlow working for them. Not with a threat of violence over a fight still lingering.

 _No_.

“Alright…” Steve mustered. “I’m - sir is there a reason why this - promotion - is happening?”

Pierce nodded.

“I must admit, Steven, that we had you, ah, under surveillance. Working in such a specialized facility for the United States government lends itself to having invasions of privacy, after all.” Pierce’s voice was apologetic, even as his expression echoed smugness.

Steve snapped his jaw shut, biting his tongue on the slew of profanity and protest that was about to come out. Pierce seemed to notice this, giving an entirely too friendly look.

“You understand this is a matter of national security, right?”

He wanted an answer. They both knew that Steve was backed into a corner, that he needed this job and protesting with a man so wholly his superior would be another nail in his coffin.

“Yes, sir,” Steve’s mouth thinned into a taut line.

Pierce smiled. 

“I knew you were a good choice for this job,” and that was news to Steve. He didn’t think that someone so important would have a hand in hiring the cleaning staff.

“You, Steven, are _trustworthy_. A man willing to work for his dime and honor his word. That’s rare nowadays, especially among such - _ah_ \- civilians like yourself.” An oil spill smile stretched across Pierce’s face as he paused, meeting Steve’s eyes. He leaned forward, opening his palms in a grandiose gesture. “Hence, you are getting a promotion.”

Steve had a feeling that this promotion wasn’t optional. 

The rest of the conversation was a blur, and it didn’t really sink in until after Steve was back to wiping down windows and fighting off cobwebs.

By then, alarm bells were ringing in his head.

 

* * *

 

  
Steve’s cabin was small, even though the price of a cabin on the edge of a town in remote Alaska wasn’t exactly _expensive_. It all boiled down to the overwhelming debt that Steve carried, though. He couldn’t pay for anything bigger, and thankfully didn’t need much space.

It was a studio cabin insomuch as there wasn’t a bedroom separate from the kitchen and living space. Everything was all squished together in one large space, with a small bathroom and smaller closet being the only doors that led anywhere save for outside.

It was surprisingly cosy, though, and with a fireplace Steve even found it to be a calm reprieve from the snow and the tunnels of his workplace.

Now though, Steve didn’t feel that calm. Instead, he shoved the door closed behind him and leaned back on it. He went to remove his scarf, coat and hat, (mittens having come off when he’d first had to struggle with the keys in the padlock). It wasn’t a settling relief that washed over him when he finally kicked off his boots and turned to survey the cold cabin.  
Instead, Steve only felt dread slicking the inside of his stomach and twisting his intestines. Because Pierce had said - had said that they had _watched_ Steve. Which, granted, out in the middle of nowhere Steve was more often than not prone to leaving his curtains open. But something was _wrong_. In the age of technology why would Pierce have someone stand outside Steve’s window 24/7 when instead he could…. bug the place.

It was an unpleasant thought. But then again lately everything had been bordering on the unpleasant. Steve wasn’t a pessimist but he was beginning to feel like his home wasn’t _his_.

Sighing, Steve went to the closet, quickly stripping with the nagging urge to comb his house for bugs or cameras or - or -

 _Hell_! He didn’t even know. But Steve couldn’t comg for anything, not with Pierce and his thinly veiled danger looming in the back of his skull. This all felt uncomfortably close to a trial, a test, and Steve was getting the feeling that searching for bugs would… not be well received.

He sighed. Home didn’t feel much as such, and it was becoming exceedingly clear that Steve wasn’t going to be able to spend the evening at the place - no matter how hard he tried to ignore the spindly feeling of being watched. So Steve did the only thing he could think of: he changed his socks and packed a bag, A’s Diner sounding more inviting than ever.

 

  
Nat gave a nod as Steve slumped into a booth, for the time being ignoring Steve in favor of finishing up behind the bar. Steve didn’t mind - in fact, he was happy about not having to talk for a minute. The walk to A’s had been brutally cold, and that compounded with the anxieties and stress that had plagued him all day was leaving Steve bone-tired.

He merely nodded as Nat, having read Steve’s mood when he first walked in, left a thick piece of cherry pie and mug of milk on the edge of the booth table. Steve could’ve cried in that moment. Instead, he fell upon the pie with a newly-realized hunger. It was warm, as was the milk. They heated Steve from the inside out, making him tired even as he chewed and swallowed.

It was easy to relax and let himself ignore all the weight bearing down on him. The diner had a steady hum of noise coming from the room and the kitchen. It was soothing, even as it was distracting.

Steve relished it, settling back into the booth with a paperback and a sigh.

 

  
“C’mon, sleepyhead.”

Steve jolted, his head whipping up at the touch to his scalp.

Nat looked down at him, a soft smile on her face.

“Waissit?” Steve blinked the sleep from his eyes, noting that the diner was empty, and the sky dark.

Nat chuffed at Steve’s bewildered expression, a halfway smile gracing one cheek. “If Tracy wasn’t working the opening shift, I’d have half a mind to let you sleep.”

Steve sat up straighter at the mention of the opening server, rubbing a hand over his face in a vain attempt to wake up. “Oh thank god.” He muttered. Tracy was… well she was a piece of work, and not in a nice way. There was a reason Steve only came to A’s after work.

“Since I’m saving you from Tracy’s wrath, though, that means you’ve actually gotta get out of here soon.” Nat nudged her head to the side, in the direction of the clock.

“Oh geez, yeah,” Steve muffled a yawn. “How much is left?”

“Just sweeping and mopping. Sam already cleared out. Said to tell you the pie was on the house.”

Steve nodded, noticeably more awake now that there was something useful for him to do. “You have the mop water ready?”

Nat grinned at this, one of her rarer toothy smiles. “I was actually waiting to see if you’d mix it up.”

Steve nodded, returning her smile with a smaller one of his own. Heading to the back of the diner, Steve felt something akin to home shivering through him. _This_ \- this companionability and easy motion in cleaning - was comfortable. Comfortable, and calming. But more than that, it was a distraction. 

 

Steve walked Nat home. It was a habit born out of a childhood spent in the city, and even though Nat could probably flatten Steve with a blow (“I also have a taser”) he still insisted.

Nat would only nod, humoring him as they walked towards the outskirts of town together.

  
By the time Steve got to his cabin, he didn’t much care about buggings or invasion of privacy. He was still bleary-eyed, and had work in the morning. He took a moment to draw the curtains and check the locks on the windows and door, (a new sense of paranoia overtaking his tiredness) before slumping on the bed into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

It was the third week after Steve was told that his home was bugged that he was informed of the full repercussions of his promotion. It had come in an envelope far too classy for a janitor’s desk, once again appearing after a day off.

Steve was beginning to really loathe that fine print and heavy paper.

**New living quarters assignment information and nondisclosure agreement, updated.**

Steve gritted his teeth, flipping through the pages of the provided documents. He’d honestly hoped Pierce had been lying, or maybe that Steve hadn’t passed whatever unspoken test he was going through, or heck, he’d hoped they’d just _forgotten_  about it.

A stupid hope, really.

**Meeting with head of housing units, [redacted] location, Alaska facility.  
Wednesday 9am.**

Steve sighed. Just great. He didn’t particularly want to live at his place of work. He didn’t particularly want to meet with the head of housing, either. Was there even proper housing in a military facility? Sure, scientists and visiting political figures needed somewhere to stay but wouldn’t they be accommodated with bunks?

Steve groaned into his hands, giving himself a moment to _get it together, Stevie._

He’d do it, of course. He didn’t have a choice and more than that something was off. And Steve was going to figure exactly what that ‘something’ was.

Was Steve latching on to this one issue too hard? Probably. But this - this was something, some _way_ for him to do good. To give back even if it just meant uncovering… well who knew. Tax evasion. Whatever. It didn’t really matter how good or bad the Bad Things were, it just mattered that Steve was capable of _doing something_.

Because yeah. Maybe there was something psychological to this whole ‘mission’ of his. Maybe Steve was worry about these things within his control because for so long in his life he didn’t _have_ control. Maybe it’s his way of making peace with the fact that he’d never been large enough to be a superhero or a soldier.

Maybe, though, Steve just didn’t care about the ‘ _why_ ’ of it all.

Maybe he was just curious.

 

* * *

 

 

Wednesday morning saw Steve cleaning toilets. He had a couple hours to kill until his meeting, after all.

  
At 8:30 Steve found himself push his cart back to his office, mind carefully blank about the day to come. He fumbled with his keychain, his morning coffee not yet fullly kicking in.

It was only as Steve shoved the door open, though, that he realize it was _already unlocked_.

  
“Hey princess.”

  
Steve figured that if he ever were going to have a vein pop in his forehead, it would be now. Because a lot of shitty pieces were coming together all too suddenly.

Rumlow was in Steve’s workroom, sitting at his table, boots propped up on Steve’s most recent knitting work in progress.

 _Fuming_ , he stopped in his tracks and _glared_.

 “What do you want.” It wasn't stated like a question, and Steve prided himself on not letting his voice quiver. He resolutely ignored how Rumlow adjusted his boots on top of the stack of yarn.

“Huh, are you illiterate then?” Rumlow snorted, gesturing like ‘ _would ya look at this guy?_ ’

Steve frowned, glancing to where Rumlow’s eyes had darted, then startled when he realized there was another man in the tiny room.

“I -what? Who’s he?” Steve took a closer look and realized it was the arm guy, just with both arms covered.

Rumlow snorted, picking up a paper from off of Steve’s desk and eyeing it half heartedly. Like he was more interested in violating Steve’s space rather than actually reading the document. “Don’t worry about that. Just think of it as… _security_.” And wasn’t that a weird way for Rumlow to refer to the other man?

Steve shook the thought off, more concerned with the issue at hand.

“Why are you in my of- room?”

“Aw, that’s cute. You think this an _office_? Was that what you were going to say?” Rumlow cooed, tossing the paper he’s been half inspecting over his shoulder. It landed on the ground. Rumlow didn’t notice, instead too caught up in giving an obvious look around at all the tools, cleaning supplies and spare parts.

“I hate to break it to you, baby, but this is a _closet_.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Rumlow laughed, straightening his legs and throwing them back to the ground. “Or what? You’re gonna kick my ass? It’ll go just as well as last time.”

Steve adjusted his stance, and noticed out of the corner of his eye that arm guy was repositioning himself as well.

“No.”

  
“Hah, you gonna run to mommy then? Snitch about it? Oh wait - your mommy’s dead, ain’t she.”

Steve’s mouth dropped, even as Rumlow’s face split into a mean grin. 

  
“Yeah, I read your file. After all a commanding officer has to know what types of shitheads are being relocated to his housing unit.”

Steve’s stomach dropped, and he didn’t even have it in his to take note of Rumlow’s shit-eating sneer.

  
“That’s right princess, you’re in the _real_ army now. And the big guy sent me to be the welcoming committee. Welcome home, by the way.”

And well. Steve decided, in that moment, that Pierce really, _really_ sucked.

Rumlow seemed to read that from his face, and began to wholeheartedly _laugh_.

 _Great_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez can anybody say SLOW BURN? What’s taking me so long? 
> 
> Also... thoughts on plot? Any guesses? What’s up with Stevie? Also sorry about the choppiness right now... I’m just trying to lay down a proper background for the Good Stuff.


	4. Moving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been completely terrible at finding time to write BUT that said —— your comments give me LIFE

  
The asset did not know how long it had been awake. It's handlers did not need it to remember, so it did not. The asset was pathetically grateful for this, as it had been incapable of holding on to a thought for more than mere minutes.

They had told it not to sleep.

The asset didn’t dare close its eyes, instead allowing its greasy hair to fall in front of its face. The lights continued their excruciating glow, helping it stay awake. The white walls were blinding, and it knew that if this were a combat setting, it would need eye grease. Not need - but benefit from.

This was not a combat setting, though.

It sat perfectly still, allowing its mind to smear as the time rolled past. It counted the bricks in the cell, then again, top to bottom, bottom to top, because though it was not allowed to be bored, or exhausted, or desperate, it nevertheless was a flawed machine and - and it _needed_ to count.

Carefully, not allowing its eyes to move, the asset started left to right - _like reading a book_ -

 

The jolt of electricity was sharp, waking the asset even as its eyes rolled with the force of it.

The electrodes (sticky, hurting, _don’t move_ \- ) let up after a moment. The asset tasted rather than felt where it had bit near-through its tongue. Carefully, it opened its lips.

Blood, a salty trickle. Red on its palm where it dripped, on the white shirt, on the floor, on the -

“ -fucking dumbass forgot the bite.” The door slammed open, an infuriated technician marching through. The asset carefully looked to the left, past the technician to see another man (armed, nervous, _new_ ) scurrying behind. It lowered its eyes quickly. ( _Weapons don’t stare, weapons don’t see -)_

“Asset.” The technician glared at it, holding a plastic lump forward. The asset knew, vaguely, that it was a mouth guard. (The asset also knew, though, to not act without order, so even as its teeth stained red and its throat clogged with the flavor of copper and salt, it did not move to take the plastic.)

The slap was not hard, but it jarred the asset nonetheless.

“I swear _just_ -“ the technician shoved a finger into the asset’s cheek, jerking it to the side. “Open.”

The asset opened its mouth, smothering a flinch as the technician prodded along its cut tongue.

“It’ll be fine. Tell Griffins it’s his ass on the line for forgetting the guard, though.” The technician ignored the asset, instead looking towards the man behind him.

“Yessir.”

The technician nodded, turning back to where his fingers were still shoved in the asset’s mouth.

“As for you, stay awake. That’s an order,” the man said, shoving the mouth guard past the asset’s teeth.

The asset knew, already, that it had to stay awake. Handler Rumlow had told it to do so earlier. ( _Much_ earlier - days?)

The asset was just - just malfunctioning. ( _Pushed too far.)_

“Okay, let’s rock and roll. I have a date tonight with Ashley that I don’t want to miss,” the technician didn’t bother looking back at the asset as he left.

Steeling itself for the night ahead, the asset carefully settled its teeth into the mouthguard. It stared blankly at the wall, mind counting left to right -

_Just like a book._

 

* * *

 

  
There wasn’t a lot of packing to be done. Steve had half a mind to argue but - no. After the initial shock, Rumlow had walked Steve through the move-in protocol. He’d been a snide asshole the whole time, but Steve didn’t think he was in much of a position to complain.

After Steve taped the last box together, he sat back on his stripped mattress, at a loss.

It’d been early on in life that Steve’d begun to understand exactly what a home was. After all, as a kid him and his ma had moved a lot. She’d been working on her degree and working to support them - and sometimes that meant they’d have to move. Only after Sarah got her job with the hospital had they been able to stay in one place. It had been a home, but not in the way Steve really knew _home_ to be. Because yeah, home was the people just as much as the house.

Steve bit his lip, shaking the thought from his head. It was alright, even though everything was fucked. He didn’t have ma anymore, and he didn’t have his home but -

But he had something else. For the first time in a long time Steve was feeling like he might be able to do something more than just get by. Because something damn fishy was happening around his workplace, and just because Steve was a shrimp himself didn’t mean he wasn’t about to get to the bottom of it.

Setting his jaw, Steve got up from his bed, a newfound fire burning in his ribs. He reached for his phone and sent a quick text to a 907 number.

 **Ready**.

  
And he was.

 

 

* * *

 

 

One hour, four annoyed-looking soldiers and one unmarked van later, and Steve was standing at the loading docks with Rumlow and arm guy. His belongings had already been taken to the room, though Steve didn’t really know where hell that was.

Hence, why he was standing with Rumlow and co.

Rumlow didn’t seem much happier about the situation, if his outright scowl meant anything. Arm guy… well Steve was beginning to think he was not one for many words. Or facial expressions. Or… emotions? Geez, Government guys huh?

Steve was about to speak, maybe complain about just standing around, but Rumlow beat him to it.

  
“Alright, then. Show twiggy here the way to his room.” Rumlow said, an unsettlingly amused smile twisting his lips. He was looking at arm guy, not even acting like he cared that Steve overheard the insult.

The metal-armed man gave a sharp nod, his eyes flickering for the briefest moment to Rumlow, then Steve.

Steve bit his lip, sensing the unease heavy in the air.

“Well what are you waiting for?” Rumlow snorted, moving to walk away. “Get moving, soldier.” With that, he smacked the metal-armed man’s ass.

Steve’s eyebrows shot up before he could stop himself. Rumlow didn’t bother looking back.

The still unnamed man looked to the left of Steve’s nose, making a quick jerking motion with his head before heading off in the opposite direction.

Steve was expected to follow, but it took his legs a moment to unlock from where he’d been standing frozen. When he did fall back in step with the man, they had already made it down a few corridors.

“You’re okay with that? He’s your commanding officer, right?” Steve said, brows furrowing even as he tried to keep pace.

The man didn’t look at him, didn’t even make a face. “Yes.”

“To what, both?”

“Yes.”

“But,” Steve said, skidding a bit as the man took a sharp turn to the left. “But that’s harassment. Or ethically questionable, at least.”

The man didn’t say anything, didn’t even acknowledge that Steve had spoken. Instead, he walked at a sharp clip with unnatural agility through the maze of hallways that made up the dormitory level. Steve followed, struggling to keep up, wondering if maybe the guy was just sorting out his thoughts. It didn’t seem that way, though, and Steve was starting to get annoyed.

“So you’re just gonna give me the silent treatment?” Steve gritted out, mentally cursing the fact that he had never had to clean the dorm level, and therefore never learned its layout.

“No.” The man didn’t look at Steve, didn’t change his expression.

Steve was about to argue, because obviously this guy was being an ass, but then the man suddenly stopped. He faced a door at the end of the hallway, a plaque reading T783 its only marking.

“Unit T783.”

Steve frowned. The man was standing ramrod straight, eyes focused on the middle distance, as if waiting.

“Er - thanks?”

The man didn’t move, his face completely devoid of emotion. Steve had to assume he was currently the butt of some joke right now. Well. Steve could deal with that.

“You want to come in?” The guy was probably busy, but Steve was tired, and if Sarah Rogers taught him anything it was that sometimes honey was more appealing than vinegar.

And if Steve could just outlast this shitty prank? Well, it’d be a start.

The man dipped his head in response, a confirmation more than an answer. Steve took it as.. whatever, and went to unlock the door.

The seven boxes containing his whole world were already neatly stacked in the far corner. It was less a dorm and more a true apartment, with a small kitchen space and seating area, with a door to the left leading to what Steve could only assume was the bedroom and bathroom.

Everything was furnished with cheap furniture.

Annoyingly, Steve realized that it was nevertheless nicer than his cabin.

“You want water? I also have coffee and tea, but I’ll have to uncover some stuff before I can make it.”

The man blinked at Steve. Like he didn’t understand what Steve was saying, or why he was saying it.

“Erm,” Steve stuttered, suddenly feeling a lot less confident. “Do you want something to drink?” Steve tried again, because if Sarah Rogers raised anything, she raised a stubborn mule of a son.

The man seemed to relax a bit at this, a scarcely-there movement.

“I want whatever you want.”

Steve’s brow furrowed, and he blinked. “Uh. Well I’m having water, so..”

The man didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at Steve. Just stood there.

“You can uh, take a seat?” It was more a question than anything else. The guy immediately sat down, his back still ramrod straight even in the uncomfortable plastic chair accompanying Steve’s table. Steve… didn’t know what was up. How do you talk to some guy who obviously doesn’t want to be around you? Maybe it’s a prank. Just, like a really obnoxious, overdone prank. All the people at this base seemed like they had too much time on their hands.

Steve stifled a sigh. “What’s your name?” He asked, going for a pleasant tone as he fished a couple glasses out of his “kitchen” box.

Silence.

Steve turned, pausing near the tap. The guy was frowning a bit, a crease between his brows.

O-kay. Very funny.

“Well. My name’s Steve. Steve Rogers, without a ‘d’,” Steve said, turning back to the sink and fiddling with the knobs. There was a moment where nothing happened, then a spurt of air and water gushed out. Steve let it run for a bit, not wanting to drink whatever ha built up in the pipes while the room had been vacant.

“We’ve met a couple times, but I never got to properly introduce myself. I do the cleaning around here, though I figure you knew that already.”

Still silent. Steve wanted to sigh. Instead, he busied himself will filling the glasses. Silently, he patteredd over to the arm guy, setting a glass in front of him and pulling up the seat across the table.

“Not much of a talker? It’s okay, I used to be pretty bad about talking too. Sometimes I still am. Oh, you can drink that by the way, I made sure it was safe.”

In front of Steve, the guy had been staring intently at the glass. At Steve’s words, his flesh hand shot out and grabbed the glass, chugging it in one go.

“Whoa, they not watering ya or what?” Steve chuckled, his voice falling a bit flat as he took in the way the guy was sitting, straight backed and lacking eye contact. It was - it felt _wrong_. Deeply, fundamentally wrong.

The room quickly fell into an awful, uncomfortable silence.

They both jumped when there was a bang on the door.

“Soldier!”

The man stiffened, and Steve hesitantly watched as his face turned a milky color.

“Er, come in?” Steve shouted.

Rumlow kicked the door open, ignoring how it slammed into the wall.

In front of him, the soldier flinched.

“And what the fuck is going on here?”

“Sorry he was just -“

“Soldier. Now.” Rumlow snapped his fingers, already whirling away. The other man silently got up, not sparing another glance at Steve.

And then, he was alone.

_What the fuck?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve didn’t see arm guy for a while after that. Of course, he didn’t see much of _anyone_ familiar anymore. Sometimes he’d go to A’s, and hole up with his knitting or a book. Nat would nod to him, then turn to help other guests. Sometimes Steve would see Rumlow and his goons in the halls, and always made sure to wear his stankiest face while walking by. After all, Sarah Rogers raised a good kid, but she’d never been able to completely rid him of his pettiness. He secretly suspected that she had enough pettiness of her own that she rather enjoyed seeing Steve’s.

But besides for that, Steve wasn’t social. If possible, he was even more isolated than before, and it wore on him.

 _But_. But there was a reason he was sticking around. In his gut, Steve knew that something was _off_. Everything was too calm, and unnaturally easy-going around the base. Rumlow, and the arm guy, and Pierce were all involved. Steve just knew it, but he didn’t know how, or why or even _what_ was going on.  

So Steve waited, patiently cleaning up after others and taking his meals alone.

And sure enough, on the third week, his gut feeling paid off.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my a cliffhanger? In MY story? It’s more likely than you’d think.


	5. We

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the tagsssssssssss. Today’s the day they really start being relevant!

Usually the asset woke up after punishment knowing it had been punished but not knowing the details.

This time, though, was different. Handler Rumlow’s face still stayed steady in its mind, growling out words.

_It was meant to be a joke, you dumb sonovabitch. Now instead you took it as an opportunity to disobey a direct order. Who controls you?_

_A shake to its bloody, greasy hair. “Hydra.”_

_Who do you listen to? “Handlers. Hydra.”_

_And? “You.”_

Handler Pierce was always straightforward with his anger and reprieve. He spoke in a way that showed that he’d worked with the asset for years, decades, on and off. And for that, the asset was so, so grateful. Because with Handler Pierce, it knew how to act. Knew that orders were always orders, not double meanings and sliding scales.

Handler Rumlow, though, was less steadfast in his ruling of the asset. He spoke in phrases unfamiliar or twisted. He spoke to the asset as if it were human, sometimes. Confusing it. Because the asset was anything but. It bled like a human, but that’s where its humanity ended.

Handler Rumlow didn’t know how to speak to the asset like Handler Pierce. He did not know how to assert control and compassion to his weapon; he was not as well trained to control it.

 _Or he just does not want to wield it like Pierce._ A dangerous thought, itchy and rebellious like dried blood on the scalp.

 _Why am I remembering?_ It carefully folded the question down, down.

It had been happening more often, the remembering. Remembering details and moments and phrases instead of emotions and -

“Asset.”

Sloppy, the asset thought abruptly.

Handler Rollins was standing in the doorway of its containment room, twitching impatiently. The asset forced itself to not flinch away as the man before it slapped a cuff onto its metal arm. It powered down, and the chilling numb of a lost limb spread through the asset’s left side.

“Showtime,” Rollins muttered, snickering a bit to Westpfahl and Cooper, who both had their muzzles trained on the asset.

 

* * *

 

 

 “The problem is that the longer it’s out without the drugs, the harder it begins to rebel. It doesn’t matter how often we wipe it.”

The asset was blurry, its body feeling like sand. People were talking above - around? - it, and it strained to listen.

It needed to know what its handlers wanted. It didn’t want to be punished again so soon. (Unwarranted, some small voice in its head said. But that wasn’t accurate. All action taken against the asset by its superiors was warranted. It wasn’t the asset’s job to understand why.)

“So Pierce really thinks this will work?” It was handler Rollins. A faint memory of - that morning? Rumlow’s punishment. Being strapped into a chair - not The chair - for testing - conditioning -

“What can I say? Times are changing, the asset needs to be off. Pierce _wants_ it to work without. Says things are on hold, and we can’t be ruining our ace in the hole.”

A hum, followed by more words. The asset lost them in the bleariness of its thrumming skull. It cowered at the thought of missing information, before it remembered that it had not been told to remember.

“- not like we can bribe it, after all. Pierce said that -“ 

And then, abruptly, the asset was unconscious once more.

 

* * *

 

 

Rumlow punched the asset in the face. Its head whipped to the side even as it steeled for what was to come.

“Now you listen here you little bitch,” Rumlow grunted, shoving a boot into the asset’s inner knee, forcing it easily to the ground. “Are you going to keep up with that bullshit?”

The asset choked on a sound (a whimper), and shook its head, sucking air in steadily through the blood clogging its throat. Calm on the outside, even as Rumlow’s eyes narrowed at it. Calm breathing, no pain, only calm - But it wasn’t calm, not really.

Another punch to the face, this one whipping the asset to the side. It stayed there, evening out its breathing.

It was shirtless. It had been in the middle of conditioning. It had malfunctioned. It had put a bullet in the left eye of the secondary technician, and managed to wreck the equipment while it was at it.

It had been bad.

“Now tell me why you deserve this.”

The asset didn’t move, didn’t make eye contact as it spoke. “Weapons don’t work without instruction.”

“And?” Rumlow sneered, pressing a boot to the asset’s skull. It panicked for a moment, mind choked with blind fear.

A brutal steel toe to the head brought it out of it's spiral. “Answer me, _now_.”

“A- assets don’t think, assets don’t resist. The asset is -“ the boot resumed its pressing, and the asset felt blind panic threatening to overtake it once more. “The Asset is made for Hydra, the asset wants what Hydra wants.”

“And?” More pressure, threatening to crack the asset’s skull. It whimpered, closing its eyes in sickly fear.

“Assets don't say no.”

Rumlow let up, stepping back to get a better look at the asset. “Good. Now it’s time for your punishment.”

The asset laid there, barely daring to breathe. Rumlow took his baton and shoved it into the asset’s neck, cranking it up until the containment room smelled like burnt hair, and the asset was practically spasming. But it didn’t speak. _It deserved this._ Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Rumlow eased up. The soldiers in the background stapped forward wordlessly.

“Okay, boys, just nothing that needs stitches.” 

The asset shivered, staying still on the ground while Handler Rumlow walked away.

Its arm was a dead weight, but the soldiers grappled it into a cuff all the same, as though they expected the asset to be able to override an off switch. It wouldn’t, even if it could.

It had been bad.

It deserved this.

One of the soldiers dragged it forward, activating the cuff magnets so that the asset was forced to balance on its knees and forearms. It gritted its teeth, preparing for pain.

Sometimes, they would jeer as they systematically took apart the asset, breaking its skin and slowly making it lose its composure under the force of a brutal beating.

This time, though, they were silent, leaving only the sound of the asset’s panting, choked breathing every time the metal baton came down to fill the room.

Eventually, when the asset was shaking with the effort of holding itself up and when every soldier had wielded the baton, they stopped. The asset, though, knew better than to think it was done.

It clenched it’s jaw at the first scrape of gloves against bruising flesh. Hands, then, systematically and quietly pulling down the asset’s training pants. It hid its face behind its overgrown hair, the closest thing to cowering that was allowed.

“Rumlow said nothing?” The first soldier said, hands spreading the asset’s cheeks with crisp detachment.

“Said it should feel it today. I think he wants to make a point,” another soldier replied, leaning forward and suddenly shoving a finger into -

The asset’s stomach heaved as it tried to regulate its breathing. Another finger, the gloves scraping, the raw hurt -

They withdrew, and it knew that that wasn’t the end, either. It knew, and it hated knowing. But as it felt something larger, so much larger and harder and painful, lining up, it knew that it was right.

 _Sometimes,_ the asset desperately thought as it felt itself splitting, blood easing the passage, _it's better to not be right._

 

* * *

 

 

It was a Monday when everything finally unraveled. It went like this:

They had told Steve to clean his regular floors. Then on the second Friday, they gave him access to the Freezers.

It was Rumlow who led him down to the Freezers, sneering at Steve when he began to ask _what are they?_

“Don’t worry your pretty head, kid.” Was all he got in response, and that was that.

The elevator stilled, leaving the pair on a floor that, for all intents and purposes, should not have existed. It was too deep. It wasn’t on the elevator floor buttons. Instead, Rumlow had wordlessly pressed the key switch, revealing it to be a deadman control.

When the doors opened, Steve was almost expecting another place entirely - maybe a hangar, or a crypt of a basement, holding the guts of this place away from the lights.

But no. It looked like every other floor, a maze of incongruent hallways and doors and polished - steel?

“The walls are metal?”

Rumlow snorted, not bothering to wait for Steve to catch up as cut a path down the winding intestines of the facility.

“Easier to hose down. Which you’ll be doing a lot of now that the higher ups decided you’re dispensable.”

“Excuse me?” Steve felt light-headed, a weight of exhaustion working as a filter for his simmering anger.

“Y’know, you’re working for Uncle Sam,” Rumlow said, leaving the previous question to hang in the air. “And sometimes you gotta break a few eggs.”

Steve scowled, but nevertheless continued to dog at his heels, never losing pace. “That doesn’t sound ominous,” he muttered.

“Kid, I don’t really care _how_ it sounds. All I care is that you keep your nose clean along with the rest of this place.”

Steve scowled deeper, setting his jaw. “So you’re saying there’s something I could be getting into, then?”

Rumlow stopped suddenly, spinning around and grabbing Steve’s wrist. Steve tried to smack the hand away, but the other man was already in his space, skillfully kicking a shin and simultaneously shoving Steve backwards. He unceremoniously crashed into the metal wall, a warped bang resonating in the otherwise silent corridor.

“For a kid tits deep in a college degree you sure are fucking stupid,” Rumlow hissed, his baton somehow at Steve’s throat, forcing him against the wall. “You think the government’s transparent? Why the fuck’d you join, kid? You’re a damn _janitor._ ” The word was spit, and Steve seethed even as stars began to creep along his line of sight.

Rumlow finally let up, and Steve resolutely did not rub at his throat, even though he bruised like a peach, and instead chose to glare. Rumlow didn’t seem to notice, or care, instead tucking his baton away.

“That’s not how this shit works, people can’t know everything or nothing would ever get done… So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll back the fuck off this and put your head down.”

“Oh so now you’re trying to threaten me with empty threats?” Steve sneered, never knowing when to drop it.

The smack left Steve’s head bouncing off the metal wall, a loud _thwump_ resonating once more.

“Christ! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Steve gritted out, steadying himself even as his vision threatened to double.

Rumlow snorted. “C’mon twiggy. You’re going to miss the show.”

Steve hissed as he pushed off the wall, having half a mind to retaliate against his C.O. But Rumlow was already halfway down the hall, hand steady on his baton. Not the right time. Not yet. Steve gritted his teeth, and against all better judgement, followed.

 

Rumlow unceremoniously pulled open a door that looked exactly like every other door in the corridor. They stepped inside, where it was cool and dark, bathed only in the light emanating from another room. _An observing room._ Steve realized, noticing the surgeons, blood, and more importantly - the soldiers guarding the exits.

“Didn’t think we’d make it, with the amount of horseshit you’ve been spouting,” Rumlow murmured, a smirk touching his lips. His mood seemed better. Which, frankly, was worrisome all on it's own. Steve was learning quickly that anything that made Rumlow happy was - not good.

Brushing away his gnawing anxieties, Steve instead turned his attention back to the window. Steve didn’t know what he expected. He should’ve known, though, that arm guy was a part of this. _Of course_ . Of course he was seated, stony-faced, looking into the middle distance as the surgeons - or maybe just doctors (after all, surgery doesn’t happen standing up, right?) peeled apart the skin scarred up around the edge of his metal arm.

Steve was baffled - clueless, really, as to why Rumlow (undoubtedly at the direction of Pierce) was showing him this.

“I don’t get it,” Steve finally said, his brow creased.

“Course you don’t, kid. You’re not supposed to.”

Steve turned to glare at Rumlow, and was taken aback by how much of a 180 his mood had taken from back in the corridors. Now, he seemed proud - excited, even.

Steve was having a very, very bad feeling about all this. He swallowed it down, though, and instead turned to look back at arm guy. Which is when he noticed it.

Upon closer inspection, arm guy was - he was clenching his jaw, the tendons jumping as the surgeon dug deeper into his shoulder.

“Is - wait, is he… _feeling_ that?” Steve hesitantly asked, a sinking feeling already forming in his gut.

“Yes,” Rumlow said simply, then went ahead and stepped forward, pressing a button for an unseen speaker. “Good job, soldat.”

The doctors didn’t react, though the man in the chair seemed to steel himself and look right at them, eyes piercing through the one way window.

Steve swallowed. “What is this? Why show me this?”

Rumlow didn’t bother actually answering Steve’s question.

Instead, he watched as the blood systematically flowed down sickly skin and stark silver.

“You know, the Americans didn’t win the Cold War. We did,” Rumlow murmured, never taking his gaze off the scene in front of them.

Steve felt his blood run cold. “We?”

“Yeah, _we.”_

“What happened to working for Uncle Sam?” Steve said, carefully keeping his tone neutral. “

We are Uncle Sam,” Rumlow said, a bit of that pride lacing his voice. “But we’re not _just_ Uncle Sam.”

Rumlow paused, finally turning to look at Steve. “Understand?”

Steve swallowed. “I can’t say that I do.”

“Well. It doesn’t matter much, does it?” Rumlow barked out a laugh. “Fuck, you’re just the cleaner! You don’t need to know any of this shit.”

Steve jutted out his jaw. “Then why am I?”

Rumlow seemed to sober. “Big Guy’s orders. It’s gotten pretty nasty down here since last cleaner got… removed. Need someone to take care of this. Top secret trash man, or whatever.” Rumlow huffed, turning his gaze back to the window.

“Wait, are you telling me that room hasn’t been cleaned in…” Steve began, racking his mind for how long he’d been working this position.

“Doesn’t really matter. Bastard won’t get sick.” As if on cue, as if to spite Rumlow’s words, the arm man’s face turned a paler shade, sickly and gaunt under the fluorescent lighting. The doctors didn’t notice, and instead of indicating - anything, really, the guy seems to be clamping down on _everything_ with nerves of steel.

“He - he doesn’t look okay.” Steve frowned.

“You still playing at that?” Rumlow jerked to Steve, crossing his arms. “Still think that is human?”

And Steve’s brain short circuited for a moment. What the f - “What? Is he an alien?” What type of everloving batshit was Rumlow in about?

“Cyborg over there, it ain’t human. We made it in a lab.”

Steve watched, the information sinking slowly, ice melting under a steady heat. “Seems pretty human to me.”

Rumlow snorted. “Ain’t that the point?” Then, without further indication, turned to march back out the doorway.

He gestured, turning to make sure Steve was listening, then began to speak like _nothing fucking weird had just happened._ “Now, time for your new cleaning assignments.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the idea of Rumlow being a bit unhinged / maaaaaybe snorting coke in the bathroom to keep him on his power trip lol


End file.
